


Everything wild

by Teland



Series: wolfy pop-tarts [2]
Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Angst & Humor, Background Relationships, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, First Time, Happy Ending, Jealousy, Knotting, M/M, Magic, Romance, Seduction, Telepathy, Werewolf Mates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,605
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21528667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Teland/pseuds/Teland
Summary: And Porthos doesn't know if they've learned any bloody lessons -- that kind of thing takes bloody time and *not* being hard as stone, as near as Porthos has been able to tell over the years -- but they can act that way.
Relationships: Porthos/de Tréville
Series: wolfy pop-tarts [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1551616
Comments: 4
Kudos: 15





	1. I will never be able to stress enough how important it is to let people know about the conversations you've been having with them.

**Author's Note:**

  * For [the_Jack](https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_Jack/gifts).



> Disclaimers: You don't even want to know what I'd do with official action figures.
> 
> Spoilers/Timeline: NOPE. Takes place in an AU-ized pre-series. 
> 
> Author's Note: Direct sequel to ["Everything bright"](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4971916) \-- it picks up a couple of days after the first one ends -- which was written and posted four *years* ago. I always *meant* to write a sequel to it, but in the past couple of years I'd pretty much given up on it ever happening... until this abruptly popped into my head a few days ago. Neither of these stories are all that deep or complex -- note the series title -- but you probably should read the first one if you want to have any idea what's going on here.
> 
> Acknowledgments: Much love to Pixie and my Jack for audiencing, encouragement, helpful suggestions, cuddling, making me be much more *coherent* -- and generally being the best spouses a Te can have.

Porthos smells it -- *it* -- and there's honestly a moment when he's thinking, when he's taking in the information and doing *things* with it, things other than moving -- 

*Yanking* Treville out of the doorway of the private room of the little tavern they meet in more often than they don't -- 

Hauling him close -- 

"Porthos, what --" 

Snarling and taking in more of those scents, more and more and -- 

And then he's not thinking, at all, he's just moving, *moving*, slamming Treville against the wall, holding back the shift by main *force* -- 

Lifting Treville off his feet enough that they can meet each other's gaze *easily* -- 

"*Fuck* -- *Porthos*!" 

"Where. Is he." 

"What --" 

He can't *breathe* -- "Where. Is the wolf. Who's all *over* you!" 

And that -- that's when Treville -- *his* Treville -- *snarls* at him. 

Instinctively moves to defend the wolf who had -- 

Who had *taken* him *from* Porthos --

For a moment -- a long one -- Porthos can't see a bloody *thing*. It's all the wolf's perceptions -- the wolf's need and hunger and *rage*: 

*Their* Treville had *mated* with another wolf -- 

Their Treville had mated with another wolf and let that wolf *turn* him and is now making *threats*.

*Their* Treville had done wrong, *is* wrong, and now -- 

Now -- 

Porthos can't sodding hold *on* --

He feels the shift starting, feels himself starting to grow heavier, larger -- 

Treville blinks -- 

*Stops* snarling -- 

"Son," their Treville says, in that low rumbling voice which has always -- 

Always --

"Son, I need you to stop and *think* for a moment..." 

Porthos and his wolf flare their nostrils -- 

Breathe -- 

Breathe and *shudder* -- 

"I know it's hard, son, but... we both need to *speak* right now..." 

The wolf in Porthos *snaps* for that, slavering and full of *rage* -- 

"Son. Is that truly how you want to treat me right now?" 

And that voice is a hand on his --

A soldier's grip -- 

A grin in the *dark* -- 

The wolf in Porthos growls in *confusion* -- but the rest of Porthos can... breathe. And think a little more. 

A little -- 

But he can't say what he needs to say without shoving the wolf *all* the way back *first*. He does that. 

Treville nods once -- and raises his eyebrows. Almost certainly for the way Porthos is still holding him up off the floor.

"I can't let you go, yet, Treville. I --" Porthos -- only the man in him -- growls, and shakes his head.

"Are you ready to talk about *why* you can't do that, son?"

Porthos raises his own eyebrows. "That latent wolf of yours *turned* you. If you *don't* know why I'm hacked off about that --" 

"Can you still not say it, son? *Why* couldn't you ever --" Treville growls in obvious frustration -- not threat. He reaches up to cup Porthos's cheek. "Son... I never knew. I never knew we were mated." 

Porthos flares his nostrils once -- 

Again -- 

*Again* -- 

The wolf in him is -- howling. 

"I was... courting," Porthos says, and *now* he can set Treville down on his feet, and dust him off, and step *back* -- 

"For four *years*? I -- son -- I would have..." Treville winces and shakes his head.

That -- 

Porthos -- doesn't snarl. 

He doesn't snarl, and he doesn't break any more of the bloody *furnishings*, but. He looks at Treville. Good and hard. 

"Son?" 

"What would you have done *exactly*, Treville." 

Treville blinks -- and then, finally, has the grace to colour. 

Porthos nods once and wipes the foam from his beard with the back of his hand. "My *mate*, eh? A man who never *once* let an opportunity to let me know that he *absolutely* didn't want the bite go by --" 

"Son --" 

"A man? Who never once owned *up* to the fact that he actually *wanted* me," Porthos says, and -- 

And steps back again. 

Just -- back. "So, tell me, Treville. *What* would you have done?"

Treville colours *deeply* -- and growls flat and low at himself. *Animal*. 

And Porthos can't help seeking for every last trace of -- him. 

The other wolf. The *better* wolf. 

Prettier? Better-educated? 

Porthos already knows the wolf's a latent -- and an adolescent one, at that. He's weaker, slower -- less powerful in *countless* ways. 

The fact that his species can *breed* faster and more *copiously* isn't going to do *Treville* a whole fuck of a lot of good. So -- 

Maybe the mental powers? 

A well-trained latent can go up against a *powerful* spirit-mage, when all's said and done, and Treville *needs* that kind of firepower in the life he lives. And -- 

And, in the end, Porthos and Treville are here, staring *into* each other in this too-small room that's too far underground, and Treville will never be his. 

Porthos takes -- a shallow breath. "What are you here for today, Treville. What do you *need*." 

Treville blinks -- and snarls again -- 

"Don't bloody *do* that --" 

Treville *advances* on him -- 

Porthos is categorically incapable of stepping back -- 

Of not breathing *deep* -- but.

"Treville, *don't* --" 

"I don't think you've been taking me *in* enough, son," Treville says, *yanking* open his tunic and -- 

And the *wash* of his scents -- 

His sweaty scents, his *musky* scents -- 

His hot and *hungry* -- 

And -- blended. 

The other wolf is -- right there. 

Treville had washed as thoroughly as always, and so the traces of the other wolf were only in his spirit, his blood, the hair all over his *body*. 

This... 

Porthos reaches out before he can stop himself -- 

Drags his fingertips over and over that spot low on Treville's throat where... 

The other wolf would've licked him there. Right there. 

Porthos can smell it -- 

Taste -- 

And it's...

"Notice it, yet, son?" 

"I. What..." 

"Get closer, son. *Take* more." 

"No --" 

"*Do* it --" 

"Don't sodding *order* me --" 

Treville grips Porthos's wrist --

Porthos *snaps* at the air near Treville's *mouth* -- 

And Treville -- grins. *Sharply*. "Son. Should we pretend to *politesse* in this moment? Mm?" 

"Let go. Now." 

"Should we act like we're not both going *mad* from what might have *been* for all those *years* -- " 

Porthos breaks Treville's grip -- easily. 

*Carefully* -- Treville is still narrowing his eyes and flexing his hand. 

"I don't know what your wolf-pup taught you, Treville -- but there are rules to follow." 

"*You* taught me --" 

"*Obviously* not well enough --" 

"*Porthos* -- I." Treville squeezes his eyes shut and shudders -- and then opens his eyes again just like that. "His name is Aramis --" 

"What the bloody hell kind of name --" 

"He's *fourteen* --" 

"For fuck's *sake*, Treville --" 

"He knows *full* well that I'm in *love* with you --" 

Porthos's teeth click shut and every hair on the back of his neck stands up. 

Treville nods once, and reaches up to open his tunic that much more. "He's *not* jealous, son. Not at all." 

"*No*. It -- it doesn't work like --" 

"Doesn't it, son?" And Treville steps close again -- 

Brings his *scents* close again -- 

Brings the other -- brings *Aramis's* scents -- "Isn't there one *particular* situation where it *does* work that way?"

And Treville's shirt is -- open. 

Unlaced under his tunic, and -- 

The leather had to have been chafing his chest-fur -- 

Making it -- 

But Aramis's scents are a damp, musky *sprawl* here, opening and giving, *blooming* -- 

And Porthos has them all over his hands before he knows what he's *doing*. He -- 

And Treville -- 

He's *molesting* Treville, and his shirt's in pieces on the bloody *floor*, and -- 

Treville is laughing breathlessly. "I've had -- mm. Not *exactly* this fantasy..." 

"I -- I --" 

"You usually throw me around a little more first --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"There's a fire lit -- atmosphere, you understand --" 

"*Treville*, I -- I don't --" Porthos shakes his head and *forces* himself to put his -- shaking -- hands on Treville's shoulders. "I -- he. He... felt me? Even before he *scented* me?"

Treville raises an eyebrow. "My wolf says it's not unknown to your species." 

Treville has a *wolf* -- 

Treville has a wolf to *teach* him, and he won't *need* Porthos for that anymore, and -- 

And the pang for that, the *hurt* for that -- 

Treville blinks and lifts his nose -- "Son...? What --" 

Porthos growls and steps *back* -- 

"Don't pull *back* --" 

"I -- *leave* it. Just leave it, all right? We can talk about --"

"*Son*, fuck, I -- haven't we learned our lesson, yet? *Please* let's not get back into the *rhythms* of *hiding* from each other. Hiding everything *important* and calling it *friendship*." 

Porthos -- takes a breath. 

*Tastes* Treville -- and his Aramis -- on the air -- 

Porthos is -- hard. Just -- 

*Treville* is hard -- and. It occurs to a part of him -- and that part is *probably* the idiot, but he's not going to be quick to pass judgment -- that if he just *does* this... 

Seduces and lets himself *be* seduced -- 

Then he can -- *they* can -- avoid one whole fuck of a lot of conversation, at least for now. It...

Treville lifts his nose again. "Son...? What are you thinking?" 

Oh, Treville... "Right now? You calling me *son* while being in *love* with me." 

Treville's eyes widen, just the way they should. Porthos nods and moves in close. "I'm also thinking about how I just *let* you get away with that -- for all these *years* -- even though I've been in love with *you* since the night we bloody *met*." 

Treville grunts -- and pants, just like that. "Have you, now." 

"I have," Porthos says, and noses into the hollow of Treville's throat -- 

Smells *Aramis* -- 

*Pants* -- 

"You... are thinking of my *other* son," Treville says, and pushes a strong hand into Porthos's hair. 

"Of course I am --" 

"You're thinking of my Aramis," Treville says, and tugs Porthos's head *up* until they're facing each other. "And of how you might distract us from the conversation we need to have." 

Porthos -- closes his eyes.

"Tell me, son. Tell me how to make this... easier --" 

Porthos coughs a laugh -- 

"Son --" 

"I'm so jealous it *burns*." 

Treville *blinks* at him. Like an *idiot*. 

Porthos *snorts*. "I'm *jealous*, you arse. I'm jealous, and I'm *hurt*, and I can't help feeling like I'm second-bloody-*best* -- *if* that --" 

Treville *growls* -- 

"-- and if you keep *growling* at me, I *will* bite you --" 

"*Porthos* --" 

"-- *and*? I'm *also* jealous of the fact that I can't even be the primary *wolf* in your life --" 

"*Fuck*, son --" 

"What do you bloody *expect* at this point? Who do *you* think is the most important person in my life?"

Treville inhales sharply -- and then he flushes hard as his eyes *heat*. "Son... what do you think I told Aramis about who *I* was closest to? Mm? About the man I admired *most*?"

"Don't bloody *admire* me --" 

"Touch me again. Get my scents -- and Aramis's scents -- all *over* you. *Roll* in me --" 

Porthos growls *desperately* --

And Treville nods -- and bares his throat. "It's yours, son. *I'm* yours. And? Judging by how you and Aramis have been reacting to the barest *wisps* of each other? *He's* yours, too."

For long moments, *all* Porthos can do is stare at the sweat on Treville's strong, pale throat -- 

Stare as his tongue curls and *lengthens* -- 

As his cock lengthens and *thickens* -- 

He's *crooning* -- 

"Oh, son... everything. I want *everything* --" 

"Come. Upstairs with me," Porthos says, and feels himself flush -- 

Feels his *ears* *blush* -- 

And Treville moves his hand from Porthos's hair and strokes the left one, just like that. "You... have a den here?" 

Porthos flushes *harder* -- 

He doesn't want to *say* this -- but. 

Treville is looking into him, right now. 

Treville's eyes are wide and full and no less hungry than Porthos's *feel*, and -- 

And Porthos doesn't know if they've learned any bloody lessons -- that kind of thing takes bloody time and *not* being hard as stone, as near as Porthos has been able to tell over the years -- but they can act that way. 

They can. 

He leans in and licks a stripe right across that throat -- 

Tastes *his* Treville the way he hasn't let himself --

Not blatantly -- 

Not *obviously* -- 

And he tastes his Aramis, too, and now he's growling, sniffing and snuffling his way to Treville's ear, pulling him closer -- 

Pulling him *closer* -- 

"Fuck, son..." 

"I have a den *everywhere* I meet with you, Treville." 

"I --" 

"I have a den everywhere you leave your *scents*," Porthos says, and licks Treville's ear once -- 

Again -- 

Treville is shuddering and panting -- 

Offering his *throat* again -- 

Porthos growls. "You like that. You like that I need you that much." 

"*Yes* -- fuck -- I need *your* scents --" 

"In your den?" 

"All *over* me, everywhere I bloody *go* -- come *home* with me --" 

Porthos *snarls* -- "Don't." 

"Porthos --" 

Porthos grips Treville by the chin and *makes* him meet his eyes. "I'll come home with you the *second* you can tell me *honestly* that you don't need me -- and my *agents* -- exactly where I am." 

Treville growls -- and his eyes flare. "My priorities aren't the same as they were three days ago, Porthos. I *need* my *pack*. The French Crown? Can go fuck itself." 

That... "Right, well, *now* I'm feeling *extremely* charitable toward Aramis --" 

Treville snorts -- "He's beautiful, mouthy, violent, imperious, loving, charming -- and everything else, too. You're going to love being mated to him. Come *home* --" 

"Treville... you'll have to make a *new* home -- we all will -- if you truly do start pulling the foundations from your little house of cards," Porthos says, and raises his eyebrows. It -- 

Treville raises his own. "You're pretending your heart isn't pounding." 

"I --" 

"You're pretending that the *possibilities* of this don't thrill you right down to where you're *made*." 

"*Treville* --" 

"Bloody *smell* me, son! *Taste* me on the air and then tell me --" 

Porthos -- pants. "I know -- you want this." 

"Need it, son." 

"I know..." Porthos winces. "You *have* a real home, a real bloody *job*, a real bloody *life* --" 

"I've dreamed... so many different scenarios to make you mine, son. To..." And Treville's smile is rueful. "You never would've stood still for all the *rules* of being a Musketeer. All the bowing and *scraping* we have to do to the men and women of *rank*," he says, and shows his teeth. "How do you think *I've* been doing with that just lately, mm?" 

Porthos blinks -- and thinks about it. "You uh. You ripped someone's throat out, didn't you." 

"Richelieu, yes. *And* his supercilious little shit of a secretary, too --" 

"I've. I've wanted to do that for you, Treville. A thousand times." 

"You've told me just that, son," Treville says -- and his smile is sharp and *warm*. "I finally understand, mm?" 

Fuck -- 

Treville tilts his head to the side again -- 

"You're going to keep doing that --" 

"Right up until you do something *about* it, son, but listen --" 

"I'm *listening*," Porthos says, and moves his hand from Treville's chin to his cheek -- 

To the back of his head -- 

To the back of his *neck* -- 

Treville shivers -- and closes his eyes. 

*Fuck* -- "Treville..." 

"Oh -- son. I... am having a very, very difficult time remembering what I was trying to say," Treville says, and barks a laugh. 

"You were telling me -- telling me about your *life*, and --" 

"I burned Richelieu's house down, of course. Concealed the death, covered it all up. I was still -- trying to -- think like the *Captain*." 

"Right --" 

"I called in tailors for my little Aramis, drafted my formal request for the boy-king to recognize his adoption..." Treville licks his lips -- and *burns* into Porthos's eyes. "And then, when I was making my plans for various ways I might solidify my position in France before my 'condition' came out and all hell broke loose...? While I was doing my *level* best to plot and scheme *ever* so carefully?" 

Porthos coughs a laugh. "I'm almost afraid to ask, but -- what did your wolf make you do?" 

Treville lets his tongue peek, just a little. "I've told you about my Athos..." 

"Oh -- you -- what did you --" 

"My other, *other* son --"

Porthos *snarls* -- 

Treville *yips* -- and his eyes are the brightest thing in this room. 

The brightest thing in Porthos's *world*, but -- "Why don't I *smell* Athos on you? Why don't I smell his *wolf* on you?" 

"I haven't turned him... yet."

"*Why*. You -- you *should* have done it --" 

"Perhaps," Treville says, taking Porthos's hand in his own and pressing it to his own bared belly. "Or perhaps I should've done *precisely* what I *did* do when I realized that the wolf in me was going to make *every* important decision from now on -- and that my life would've been a damned sight better if I'd *had* a wolf to make the decisions all along." And Treville raises an eyebrow. 

Porthos flares his nostrils. "What. What did you do, then. When you realized." 

"Got up, *left* my other boys to their sport, bathed *thoroughly* -- but not *too* thoroughly -- and came. To get. *You*." 

And for long moments they're only panting at each other, breathing hungrily and *needing* -- 

"Let me... let me *finally* please us *both*, son --" 

"Treville, I -- you *have* to know that the man I am *and* the wolf I am are desperate to *protect* you --" 

"You're half my bloody *age* --" 

"And you're an *infant* to this. It's *common* for young wolves to -- to go a little mad --" 

"Then protect us. *Teach* us. *Guide* us -- the way only you can, son," Treville says. "Because I'm not living one more day *without* you, whether or *not* we wind up living in the *human* world." 

And -- that's it. There's nothing -- 

There's *nothing*, and Porthos is *shoving* Treville into the shadows -- 

Into the narrow little doorway leading to the stairs -- 

*Up* the stairs, and they're stumbling, they -- 

They're tearing at each other's clothes and they're stumbling like boys, like *amateurs* -- 

And Treville's nostrils are flaring, over and over and *over* again, he -- 

"You smell me." 

"All of your *scents* -- I --" 

Porthos shoves Treville into the broad, spare attic room full of soft things -- 

"*Fuck* -- like a wall of -- I *taste* you --" 

"Do you taste me tossing myself *off*, Treville?" 

Treville growls and *drops* to his hands and knees, right on the softest mattress, shoving his *face* right where Porthos's arse rests, and. 

And it's the easiest thing in the world to get those boots off -- 

Those trousers -- 

But the scents are theirs, finally theirs *together*, and Treville's breeches are so wet, so *slick* -- 

Treville is gulping air and *chewing* on the blankets -- 

And Porthos had just ripped those breeches off with his teeth. He can't -- he -- "Tell me." 

Treville shudders all *over* -- "Fuck, son, I'll tell you *anything*," he says, slurs into the *blanket* -- 

"You sound -- you sound *drunk* --" 

"I didn't tell you to leave -- leave all this *musk* --" And Treville croons and *grinds* his face into the blankets -- 

Offers -- 

*Offers*, and Porthos's heart is pounding, his belly is dropping, he's so bloody *hard*, but -- 

But -- 

"*Treville* --" 

"Tell me, *ask* me --" 

"Do you -- do you *want* it."

And Treville -- laughs. Low and rough and *filthy*, the way he only does when he's *perfectly* relaxed, perfectly happy and happy to be with *Porthos* -- "Oh, son... did you want me to tell you *how* I want it...?"

He doesn't -- 

He -- 

The little pot of oil is right by Treville's *cheek* -- 

"Did you want..." Treville pants and lifts his *arse* -- 

And Porthos is panting, whuffing out growls, *shoving* down his trousers and tearing open his own breeches -- 

"Did you want me to beg for it, son? For your claws on my hips? Your *long* tongue on my hole? *In* my hole as I clenched up tight for you -- or tried to --" 

"*Fuck* --" 

"Did you think -- but you *were* thinking I didn't want it. That I didn't want it *enough*," Treville says, and growls -- 

Spreads his *knees* -- 

"That I didn't run right home and toss myself off quick and mean and *vicious* --" 

"*Treville* --" 

"-- until I'd worked up *just* enough slick to shove three fingers up my arse and *howl* for it, son. Howl for *you*." 

And Porthos is panting and -- 

His breaths are catching on needy growls every time. 

*Every* time. There's exactly one way this will go, and -- "'m. I'll shift. While I'm fucking you." 

Treville licks his lips -- and his teeth. "Son, you have no *idea* how many times I've dreamed of *that*... but." 

Porthos's heart *seizes* -- "But?" 

"Oh, son, I'm not saying no to anything. I'm saying an *enthusiastic* yes to *everything*." 

"Then --" 

"*But* -- I think you're maybe... a little unsure. Maybe this isn't entirely how you wanted this to go?" And Treville *starts* to turn over onto his back -- 

Porthos can't let him. 

Porthos grips him by one hip and the back of his *neck*. 

He. 

"I can't. I can't do a damned thing but *take* you when you do this to me, son --" 

"Daddy. I." And Porthos is blushing to the roots of his *hair* -- 

"Well. There is now a *lot* of my slick all over your -- son. Son, say that *again*, *please*." 

"Daddy... I've wanted to say it for-bloody-*ever*," Porthos says, laughing breathlessly and squeezing hard with both *hands* --

*Treville* laughs -- 

And croons -- 

And *tries* to lift his arse again -- "Fuck, son, if you *had* said it... ah." 

"You would've been a *trifle* less *reticent*, maybe?"

"Mm. Spending all over a man's boots, floor, and furnishings while trying to have a conversation with that man *does* tend to make me *significantly* more gregarious, son -- I." 

"Say it, Daddy. Say it all." 

"*Fuck* -- I -- please fuck me, son. Please -- please give it to me --" 

"Should I hurt my Daddy?"

"Hnh --" And Treville *strains* in Porthos's grip -- 

*Shakes* -- 

*Sweats* -- "I -- I'll do anything for your *force*, son --" 

Porthos grips *bruisingly* hard before he can stop himself -- "Anything...?" 

Treville croons and pants and croons *more* -- "*Anything*!" 

"Will you give me *your* force, Daddy...?" 

"*Shit* -- I -- I'll ride your arse until you're *weeping* for it -- I'll hold you by the *beard* and fuck your face while you drool all over my *boots* -- I -- I -- you don't know my *dreams*!" 

Porthos pants for it, for the feel of his cock jerking and spasming, for the feel of his *knot* *pulsing* -- "Daddy, I -- I need you --" 

"Have me --" 

"I can't tease any-- anymore --" 

"*Have* me!" 

And it feels like it takes all the strength in Porthos's *body* to release Treville, but he does it, and he gets that pot of oil in his hands -- 

And Treville is ready for him -- 

Ready for Porthos to take what -- 

What they both want. 

What they both *need*, and it's too much, too bloody incredible. It's at the bottom of all the dreams and fantasies, all the ones where Treville said *those* words, or those -- 

Where they kissed and touched like *men* before doing *anything* else -- 

That's not this.

*This* is the ridiculously expensive olive oil on his fingers -- what he's used his *entirely* ill-gotten gains to purchase since *that* conversation with Treville let him know, for good and all, that he loved using it on his *boys*. 

Porthos still doesn't know what he likes for *himself* -- other than his own *slick* -- but this -- 

He needs this, he needs *this*: The *ease* of his own fingers going right into a hole that *wants* him, that's *hungry* for him, that's hungry for -- 

"Fuck -- oh, *fuck* --" 

"Does your Aramis do this, Daddy...?" 

"Our -- *our* Aramis --" 

"*Answer*," Porthos says, and fucks in, fucks *in* -- 

"*Hnh* -- oh, that's so -- and I don't leave him *functional* enough to -- to do it --" 

Porthos *yips* a laugh -- "Well, I suppose he *is* fourteen -- you sodding *deviant* --" 

Treville's laugh is breathless, human enough -- "I'm also -- good at what I *do*, son --" 

"Really," Porthos says, and gives his fingers a *twist* -- 

"*Fuck* -- oh, fuck, do that all the time," Treville says, and drops his face to the blankets again -- 

"Athos...?" 

"Mm. I've -- considered -- deeply -- please hard. Please *harder* --" 

Porthos *shoves* in -- 

*In* -- 

Treville barks like a *dog* -- "*Yes*!" 

"Daddy..." 

"I need it -- I *need* it --" 

"Yes -- yes, you bloody *do*," Porthos says, and *gives* it to him, gives it to his *Daddy*. 

Fast and hard with his two fingers and harder than *that*, and it doesn't take long before Daddy is swiveling those lean hips and trying to *ride*, trying to *take* -- 

"Oh -- Daddy..." 

"It's so -- it's so..." 

"Good? *Hot*?" 

"*Perfect*, son. I -- ah, fuck, please -- *please*." 

"Please *what*." 

"Please, I -- wipe -- wipe your slick -- on my lip --" 

"*Fuck*, Daddy --" But Porthos is already doing just that, already painting Daddy's whole *face* -- 

"Yes -- fuck, *yes* --" And Daddy is gulping air, lapping -- 

His *rhythm* is stuttering -- 

He keeps *jarring* himself on Porthos's fingers -- 

Porthos *smacks* his arse -- 

"*NNH* --" 

"Ride me *better* --" 

"*Fuck*, son, I --" And Daddy croons and puts his back into it, rides Porthos's fingers *faster*, urges Porthos to fuck him *faster* -- and harder, too. 

"You need more." 

"*Yes*, I -- yes, give me more, fill me -- fill me *up* --" 

Porthos grunts and *growls* for that -- 

Spatters the backs of Daddy's thighs with slick and *resists* giving his cock a squeeze -- he'll only lose control *faster* if he does. 

No. He gives Daddy that third finger, not too slow but *good* and steady -- 

Daddy is whuffing out yes after yes after *yes* -- 

Porthos *shoves* in that last half-inch -- 

Daddy *barks* again -- 

Clenches *just* as tight as a wolf can -- 

Porthos smacks his arse again -- 

Again-again-*again* -- 

And Daddy sobs and *howls* for it, flexes open *wide*, and Porthos is -- 

Wild inside, mad for it, he -- 

It feels like Porthos's *vision* has narrowed down to Daddy and everywhere he's *touching* Daddy -- 

It feels like he doesn't *exist* where he isn't touching Daddy, opening Daddy, getting his Daddy *ready* -- 

Oh, so *ready*, and he's dreamed this, he's *dreamed*, but it was never -- 

Daddy never beat at the *mattresses* like this -- 

Daddy never gulped at the air and *sobbed* for it like this -- 

Daddy never -- 

Never -- 

The ache wasn't shared, not enough. The *need* wasn't shared, and Porthos realizes, with a shock that's enraging and maddening and *terrifying*, that all of his dreams were of a Daddy who didn't love him like this, not like this -- 

Not ever -- 

"Ah -- ah, fuck, *son* -- please -- please don't *stop* --" 

"Daddy --" 

"I need you, I need this, please, I -- I love you so *fucking* much, and I -- it's been so *long* --" 

And the growling is wrong, the growling hides the other sounds, the *better* sounds -- 

"*Do* it, son, *give* it to me, give me -- give me *all* of you --" 

And then the growl is a *pull* on everything Porthos *is*, and Porthos realizes that it's exactly too late, that he's losing himself, that he *can't* -- 

He pulls his fingers *out* -- 

"*Fuck* --" 

\-- and *immediately* shifts to the halfway form, hulking and hard and furry and *desperate*, slavering, *needy* -- 

And this *isn't* the first time Daddy has looked small to him -- *all* humans wind up looking small, sooner or later -- but it's a lot more *terrifying* now --

With his panted moans -- 

With the way he's lifting his *arse* -- 

With the shine of *oil* on his arse -- 

He -- he can't hurt his Daddy like *this* --

He hears himself whining -- but. There's something... reaching?

There's something touching the *wolf* in him, spirit to *spirit*, and -- Porthos knows. Porthos *remembers*, through the haze of lust and need and love and *panic* -- 

He can hurt Daddy now, but he can't injure him -- not if he's even a *little* bit careful. He can -- 

He *can*. 

And if he doesn't in the next *several* seconds, every wolf in this room -- spirit or otherwise -- is going to mutiny.

Porthos licks his chops and *spreads* that arse -- 

"Fuck -- oh, *fuck*, Porthos, please, *yes* -- the wolf -- my wolf -- he told you?" 

"I. *Understand*," Porthos says, and he's chewing the words, dripping *foam* -- it's not bloody easy to *talk* in this form -- 

Daddy shivers like one of his incredibly delicious-smelling horses -- "Do you need me to slick that incredible cock of yours? Or is it slick *enough*." 

Porthos's vision *narrows* again -- 

Daddy's arse Daddy's sweat-sleek back Daddy's peeking *tongue* -- 

"*LIFT*." 

"*Yes*," Treville says, and lifts that arse right back up where it belongs -- 

"Slick. *Enough*. For *you*." 

"*Hnh* -- please, *please* -- oh." 

And Porthos is pushing in, pushing -- 

It's so good, so -- 

So hot and sleek and so -- 

There's nothing *like* fucking another wolf; nothing like that tight, muscular *force*; that knowledge -- hallucinatory or not -- that your cock might just get *crushed* by the pressure this time, but -- 

"I -- *oh* --" 

"TELL." 

"So -- *fuck* --" 

"*TELL*!" 

Daddy croons, breaking out in fresh sweat and *panting* -- "I -- I -- you're so big, so much -- so much *hotter* -- I thought. I thought I was -- please *more*." 

"*Daddy*. *Take*," Porthos says, and shoves in right up to his knot, shoves in *deep*, and Daddy's hole is *quivering* around his cock, Daddy is *choking* on his breaths, Daddy is clawing at the blankets and trying to get *more* -- 

So -- 

Porthos can't wait, *doesn't* wait, slipping out *fractionally* and shoving *in* -- 

Daddy *yips* and *whines* -- 

Porthos does it again -- 

Daddy *sobs* -- 

Porthos does it *again* -- 

"Fuck, I -- I --" 

And Porthos is aching for this, aching for *just* this, this chance to drive his Daddy right out of his *head*, but his *knot* is aching, too, and he needs -- 

He *needs* -- 

He grips the back of Daddy's neck with one furry hand and pulls out a little farther -- 

"Ah -- ah, *fuck* --" 

"Love. *LOVE*!" And this rhythm is longer, smoother, *faster*, so much -- 

So *much*, and Daddy is crooning constantly, tossing his head -- 

His *sweat* is flying -- 

His scents will *be* here! Finally *here*, and Porthos can't keep from fucking him harder for that, from -- 

"I *love* you, son!" 

From shoving Daddy's head *down* -- 

"HNH -- I -- I --" 

And the scents of Daddy's spend rise sharp, musky, deep, *immediate* -- 

He's bucking wildly, roughly -- 

He's flexing *open* -- and Porthos is snarling just like that, pushing in, pushing *in* even though he hadn't stretched Daddy enough before -- 

Even though this will *hurt* -- 

Forcing his knot *in*, and now Daddy is sobbing as his arse *clenches* and flexes, over and over, *obviously* without his control -- 

So *helpless*, and the strangeness is part of the thrill, part of what's making Porthos keep flushing under his *fur* -- but.

Daddy's still *spurting* -- 

Still jerking and writhing -- 

Still giving himself *up* for Porthos's cock, for Porthos's *knot* -- just the way he should, just the way -- 

It was always *meant*, and Porthos knew that from the moment he'd met the *intoxicatingly* wild eyes of the human soldier who'd been drinking in his territory -- 

The *beautiful* human soldier who'd gotten himself in the middle of a fight with a group of toughs who were better-armed than most and more inclined to *use* those arms against a King's Man than most -- 

The beautiful human soldier who'd taken one look at the hulking, slavering beast Porthos had *become* in order to save his *life*... and grinned.

And introduced himself. It -- 

"*MINE*!" And Porthos *shoves* in -- 

And Daddy's howl is a desperate, breathless *whistle* that turns into a *choked* sob -- 

Porthos's knot *pops* in -- 

Porthos *yanks* Daddy up just enough that he can breathe -- 

*Rakes* his hip with his claws and tastes him, tastes his blood on the air, and yes, *yes*, he's howling -- 

They're howling together, singing to the moon which won't be fat and right for weeks, yet, but -- 

But for them -- 

Oh -- 

"P-*Porthos* --" 

"*DOWN*!" 

Daddy drops *immediately*, panting and gasping and *whuffing* -- and wheezing just right, just *perfect* when Porthos covers him, holds him, wraps his arms around his chest and squeezes *tight* -- 

Holds *tight* -- 

And fucks his Daddy *properly*, rutting in hard and fast and dirty, hard and fast and *nasty*, and he can smell his Daddy getting needy for it again, getting *right* -- 

He can smell his Daddy's slick and spend and sweat and *spit*, and he needs every bit of it, every *drop*, and now he knows he'll have it -- 

Have it *forever* -- 

Never -- 

He's never letting this go. 

He never *can* let this go, and the part of him that's frightened by that is only the human, small and whimpering and *lonely*. 

The rest of him knows better, has better, *is* better -- and it's time to *prove* that. 

To -- 

Porthos unwraps one arm from around Daddy's chest, forces his head to the side -- 

"Please, *yes*!" 

\-- and Porthos's cock jerks *hard*, spasms hard enough to *hurt* even as Porthos bites, suckles, laps -- 

*Mates* his Daddy, *finally*, and it's been so long, it's been -- 

Oh, he can feel every cord connecting them, every drop of blood, every thread of friendship and family, of brotherhood and this -- this *thing* they're building that's always been *more* than any of that. 

He can feel the *rush* of it slamming through them both, his power and Daddy's own, twining and braiding and filling them, making them *both* more powerful, and Porthos knows that he's still rutting -- 

That he's *howling* and rutting -- 

And knows that Daddy is losing himself just that much, shoving himself back and *back* onto Porthos's knot, *taking* him even as their power goes even wilder within them, even as it *whips* them on -- 

On and -- 

Oh, but he can *feel* -- 

(I feel you, too, son...) 

Porthos gasps and *grips* his Daddy, holds him, *holds* him -- 

(*Never* -- never let *go* -- ah, *fuck* --) And the scents of Treville's *fresh* spend rise as he gasps, whines high and *pained* -- 

His knot must be *huge* right now, and Porthos wants it, wants it all, wants everything -- 

(S-son -- *yes* --)

I need you!

And Daddy reaches for him *shakily* with everything he is, reaches and *enfolds* him -- (We. We don't have to be *alone*, son. Not -- *please* not ever again...) 

And Porthos *sobs* through howl after howl as he spurts -- 

As he ruts and spurts and spasms and *shakes* -- 

He -- 

He can't *stop* -- 

He can feel himself gripping Daddy hard enough to do *damage*, but he can't make himself -- 

(*Don't* let go, son. *Hold* me -- I've needed this for *years*.)

Porthos gasps and spurts again -- 

*Again* -- 

*Remembers* that the mating spend for his species can go on for a *while* -- he -- 

He never really thought he'd *have*...

(Oh, son... I'll teach you better. We all will.) 

Daddy, I -- 

(Shh, just give it to me, son. Give me... everything...) 

Porthos does just that.


	2. Other honeymoons have less dire consequences, but, you know, let's not be judge-y.

After an extended period of time -- Porthos is still spending. 

He can think slightly better than the average rock, and his vision has mostly returned, but his *cock* is still -- wait, no -- 

He shifts back to human-form -- 

He eases his grip on Daddy enough to let him *breathe* -- 

Daddy gasps *several* times, arse flexing and clenching and *leaking* around Porthos's significantly smaller knot --

It feels so good Porthos winds up losing his vision again for a while -- 

And, when he comes back to himself, Daddy is laughing himself breathless. Right. 

"I uh. I'm *almost* done... I think..." 

"Mm. I'm not -- I'm not rushing you," Daddy says, laughing more. "Fuck, I -- my wolf is telling me -- extremely rudely -- how naive I was not to expect all this spend." 

"Uhh... your wolf isn't --" And Porthos groans like a *man* as he spurts one last time. "*Fuck* -- uh. Uh... wait, I." 

"Mm?"

Porthos gives himself a *careful* shake and doesn't let himself slump -- much -- 

Daddy *rumbles* -- 

"Oh fuck, I love that *sound* -- but. Your wolf isn't, you know, good to you?"

Daddy rumbles *more*, grinning slyly back over his shoulder -- 

"And you have *always* been an arsehole --" 

Daddy yips a laugh. "That I have, son. Mm. Don't get me wrong, though -- my *wolf* isn't an arsehole or a pillock or anything like that. He's just not the most *patient* wolf I've ever met." 

Porthos nods thoughtfully. "Likes to get down to business, does he?"

(Don't think I don't know how to have a good time, Porthos!) And that would *be* Daddy's wolf -- 

In *Porthos's* head -- 

(And mine, son.) 

It -- *fuck* -- 

(Were you *not* educated about this? Where are your bloody *parents*?) 

Uhh. My father was human and my mother was beheaded and burnt, Wolf. When I was eleven. 

(Well, then. Now we *know* why you've been so ignorant and slow -- *and* haven't been teaching our Treville anything like right!) And the spirit-wolves are, of course, all *mostly* intangible, but -- 

Porthos would *swear* that *this* spirit-wolf's glare was crisping the fur on his bollocks just a little, at the moment. Right, so, um. You'll be teaching us all, then? 

(Aye. And so will Aramis's wolf, of course. He has a fine head on his shoulders. Never leads his boy astray or lets him hesitate when a hunt's in the offing.) That glare gets hotter.

I... 

Daddy is *snickering* -- 

Look, I -- I need to *meet* Aramis, and get to *know* him, and -- 

(Court him *extremely* politely until he's in his thirties, son?) 

You can just bloody *shut* it, Daddy. *Presumably* Aramis will *tell* me if he's bloody *interested* before my *whiskers* are grey -- 

(I *see*. So you'll only court him until he's in his mid-twenties or so.) 

Would you just -- this is what born-wolves *do*, you arse! It's bloody *traditional*. There are -- there are *forms* and -- and *gifts* -- 

Daddy laughs like an *arsehole* -- 

The spirit-wolf clears his incorporeal throat, and it's a *lot* like being scruffed by a ghost who means to bathe you *violently* before beating you in an entirely educational manner. 

Daddy sighs nostalgically. (Remind me to tell you all about growing up with Dad's old chatelaine Marceline.) 

Vicious, was she?

(She was the single most brutal human I've ever known,) Daddy says, and sighs again. Quartermaster's wife; you understand.) 

Right, right, got it. I -- 

The spirit-wolf clears his throat *again* -- 

Porthos *and* Daddy wince a bit -- 

(We ah -- we're listening, Wolf.) 

Yeah. Uh. That. Definitely that. 

(Are you? Both of you? At bloody *last*?) 

*Yes*, Wolf --

(I --) 

(It's about fucking time,) the spirit-wolf says, and glares more. (Now listen very sharp, boys. You, Treville, can't be mucking about and *lying* all the time. You're a wolf now -- and a wolf who lies to his pack? Is a wolf *without* a pack. And a wolf without a pack is dead.) 

(I did pick that up --) 

(Not bloody fast enough!) 

(*Hey*!) 

It did take you days to get here, Daddy. I mean, you've got to give him that -- 

(All *right* --) 

(*You* didn't cover yourself in any glory, either, Porthos. Aramis's wolf and I understand the customs of born-wolves like yourself *very* well --) 

I -- 

The spirit-wolf snarls them *both* down -- 

Daddy's *ears* twitch -- 

Porthos's knot actually *shrinks* a bit -- Uhh. I'm listening? I'm listening. 

The spirit-wolf *looks* at them for just a little longer. 

Porthos can smell Daddy's *amused* worry -- 

And his own, too. *Right*. 

And then the spirit-wolf whuffs his satisfaction. (We've studied the lore since it became clear that our Aramis and Treville had another mate out there somewhere. We've contacted the other wolves who were more *familiar* with born-wolves like you, Porthos.) 

Porthos's worry... is a lot less amused. 

The spirit-wolf yips. (So you *know* what we know.) 

I... 

(Isn't it time for you to *tell* your mate?) 

Porthos -- shivers, and strokes his Daddy's back --

His throat -- 

His hips -- they've healed from those scratches, but there's just a bit of drying blood to make the textures more -- 

More... 

"Son..."

Porthos winces. "We tell. We tell the people we're courting -- uh. We don't... leave them in the dark. I mean -- if it's another wolf, they *know*, but --" 

"You tell the humans. Oh -- son. Did you think..." Daddy shivers. "But I already know that I made you think I didn't want you, didn't need you --" He growls and kneels up, presses his body so *close* -- 

Porthos growls and *holds* him -- 

"That's it, son, that's just right." 

"I..." 

"We did this wrong. We -- we fucked it *all* up, and it was *mostly* my fault, because you *are* half my age --" 

"*No* --" 

"-- and if there's one thing I learned from my *brothers*, son? It's that there's no percentage in lying to -- or holding back from -- the people you love most in the world," Daddy says, and reaches up and back to cup Porthos's face -- 

To pull Porthos in close enough to nuzzle and *nip* -- 

"I would've never had you *shy* of me, son --" 

"I know -- I *know*, Daddy -- I. I just..." 

"Mm?" And Daddy licks Porthos's mouth once -- 

Again and again -- 

"Tell me, son..." 

And he has to say it. He has to say *everything*. 

"That you do, son -- and I do, too. We all do." 

Porthos... breathes. "Sometimes... sometimes it felt just as good, just as *right*, to be shy around you as it did... as it did to *be* young around you. To be the one... who didn't have to have *all* the answers all the bloody *time*." 

And Treville is silent for long moments -- 

*Terrifyingly* long moments -- 

Just -- 

"Daddy -- I -- *Treville*, I mean --" 

"*Don't* backslide, son --" 

"Fuck --" 

"Here's what's *going* to happen -- are you listening?" 

"Daddy --" 

"Are you *listening*." 

"Bloody *yes* --" 

"We're removing ourselves -- our *pack*, muzzle to tail-tip -- from the line of fire, son. From this moment forward, the *only* thing about the French *human* populace I give a *damn* about is what it can give us *when* to help us *get* somewhere better-suited to *all* of our needs --" 

"*Daddy* --" 

"I have *nothing* that matters in this country -- except for you and my other sons. *Athos's* blood-family is *dead* -- and it's entirely possible that he has even less interest in continuing his *line* than I have in continuing my own. *Aramis* has nothing but this *pack*. You... well. How *many* times have Flea and Charon *wistfully* asked you to repeat your mother's old tales about life in other parts of the world? Places where wolves walk tall and free and *easy*, because --" 

"Because." Porthos swallows. "Because some humans know how to treat their healers, and their scholars, and their... I." 

"You're hearing me." 

"Daddy..." 

"You're *hearing* me." 

"Mum. She wanted. She wanted to *make* this part of the world... better. She wanted *me* to do it, and --" 

"We can do that, too, son," Daddy says, smooth and easy as silk as he pets and strokes Porthos's beard -- 

As he nuzzles right *in* -- 

"We can stop all the dancing around and be hard about things, be *focused*. We can turn every last *one* of our allies -- and the royals, and the people next in line for the throne should our royals be forcibly removed, and the people next after *that*, too. We can... stack the deck in our favour, mm?" 

"You've been... working with witches for years..." 

"Witches, other shifters, the occasional less-actively-*terrible* undead... I use what I am given, son. *Always*. And I will *continue* to use *all* of those people in every way I see *fit* no matter what we decide to *do*. But..." And Daddy licks against the grain of Porthos's beard. "I, for one, am bloody sick and tired of doing things because they're 'proper' and 'suit my station' and 'will advance the French Crown' and all that other shite which doesn't have a *goddamned* thing to do with what I -- or the rest of my *pack* -- wants or *needs*. 

"And you are, too." 

Porthos -- shudders. 

"You're half my age." 

"Stop -- stop bloody beating me over the *head* with that --" 

"Just this, son: You've only spent a *single* generation living for everyone except yourself." 

"I..." 

"I promise that it just gets harder. That it will make you smaller, and weaker, and stupider --" Daddy growls. "Every day of it, son. Every *moment*. Sooner or later? We *must* take what we want -- or we lose the ability to *be who we are*." 

Porthos shivers all over, hair standing up all down his *spine* again -- 

He has to hold his Daddy. 

He has to keep him, and -- just like this. 

Just like this, even with his knot shrinking enough, finally, that Daddy can finally start to move, a little -- 

Even with their sweat cooling and their scents settling all round -- 

This -- he needs this. 

He always will. 

And the fact of the matter is...

There's exactly *one* choice they can make with their lives which is even a *little* bit safe for them. For the pack as a *whole*. 

The *second* Daddy starts fomenting werewolf revolution, he paints targets on *all* their backs -- and it won't only be the *humans* in France gunning for them. The more conservative and *frightened* shifters and lycanthropes and others will want them on aconite-laced pyres *immediately*, just so things can quiet back down to the status quo again. 

They won't bloody *care* about waiting and seeing how things fall out once there are multiple full packs of werewolf nobility and royalty. They -- 

They won't care. 

And, maybe, it's past time to admit that Porthos doesn't owe a single bloody thing to people -- even his fellow lycanthropes -- who don't care about him and his. 

Not even a better world. 

Daddy rumbles and licks him, rumbles and nips -- 

"Daddy --" 

"And remember, son -- not a single moment of your existence is set in stone. There may come a day when you actually *do* want to spread the territory of wolves. When you *want* it --" 

"And... and on that day... I will," Porthos says, and nods, pulling Treville closer -- 

Holding him *closer* -- 

"I'd appreciate breathing at some point, son --" 

"Should've thought of that before, Daddy. You've got some years to make up in my arms." 

Daddy rumbles more. "So I do, son. So I do." 

Porthos closes his eyes and nuzzles in, eventually laying them both all the way down on their sides and just -- 

Breathing. 

A part of him is gathering his cash-stores from this bolthole and this den and this actual bank and this patch of *forest* -- 

A part of him is murdering the handful of people who *might* make waves for him and the rest of the pack -- 

A part of him is stunned, only *stunned*, gasping, breathless, staring at his life and what he's made of it, what he's *making* of it, who he actually *is* -- 

The rest of him is listening to his Daddy rumble, low and pleased and satisfied, and waiting for night to come -- and the chance to meet his brothers. 

end.


End file.
